


Dehydrated

by fr0ntier



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Gen, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Multi, because let's be real, neither Fenris or Varric would let Hawke fuck off to Weisshaupt alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fr0ntier/pseuds/fr0ntier
Summary: After the assault on Adamant, Hawke receives a visitor at Skyhold. As a result, the Inquisitor finds out that the categories "famous figures in Thedas" and "ridiculously attractive people" overlap.





	1. Chapter 1

“I,” the Inquisitor announced as the party waited for the guards to raise the gate to Skyhold, “have sand in places that sand should never be.”

Behind Linaya, Solas, Bull, and Varric grumbled in chorus. They quartet had spent the last week and a half trudging the Hissing Wastes hunting Venatori stragglers and establishing checkpoints for safe trade routes. And, of course, searching for treasure to fill the Inquisition’s coffers.

“Shake out your pants and you’ll be fine,” Varric laughed, ducking under the gate before the other three had room. “Bianca, on the other hand…I’ll be cleaning grits out of her firing mechanism for months.”

Solas, who had been relatively silent on their return trip, huffed grumpily. “Consider yourself lucky that your suffering was contained to a minor inconvenience.” His head was a very angry shade of crimson and hot to the touch, a result of his cowl being blown away and lost in unforgiving desert winds.

On the other side of the gate, Varric balanced on one foot and pulled off a boot, upturning a small pile of pebbles onto the ground. “Andraste’s ass, that’s enough rock to make a golem of my very own.”

“Smelly dwarf foot golem,” Bull snickered tiredly. “Bottle Varric’s stink and Adan could make our knockout powder stock lethal.”

Solas wrinkled his nose, trailing behind the qunari and Lin. “Would that not negate the purpose of _knockout_ powder?”

The Inquisitor managed an exhausted and breathless laugh as she led the merry band of misfits up the steps towards the courtyard. “Perhaps, but think of how quickly we could take down dragons with power like that.”

Bull hefted his fist in the air with a roar. “The Dragon Slaying Team could break record times!”

Solas, who never displayed an excitement for dragon slaying like Bull or Sera, responded with an elongated sigh. “Yes, adding more danger to a fight with a dragon is a wise choice.” He thought their near-obsession with hunting the beasts was a poor use of resources and much too selfish an endeavor for the Inquisitor to take on. She had responsibilities as a leader and could not fulfill any of them if digesting in a dragon’s belly.

“Varric,” Lin asked breathlessly, her thigh protesting as she took another step, “why don’t you join us for the next one? I’ve really got a grip on the sustain aspects of being a Knight Enchanter. We could replace Dorian or Viv, take you along.” She leered at Bianca. “Imagine your lovely lady glistening with heat resistant oil as she pumps bolt after bolt into a legendary beast.”

The dwarf huffed and cradled Bianca closer to his chest. “Don’t manipulate us like that, it’s crossing wires I didn’t think I had.”

Lin laughed. “Come on, we could make a weekend out of it. Besides, you have experience with dragons. We’ve all heard about your Bone Pit adventure with the Champion.”

Before Varric could answer, Bull let out a suggestive whistle as they neared the top of the stairs. “Speaking of the Champion…” he rumbled, and pointed a clawed finger across the courtyard.

Hawke, smiling brilliantly, stood near the entrance to the Herald’s Rest, surrounded by a thin throng of admirers. She spoke animatedly to someone in a hooded cloak, eyes bright and focused on them, the crowd ignored. Lin felt a flush crawl up her neck: she’d read Varric’s tale like nearly everyone else on Thedas, and had admittedly developed something of a crush on the Champion, even long before they’d been introduced. If the mage was disarmingly charming on paper, she was absolutely, devastating, _bewitching_ in person. Even for a human she was quite tall and despite her brazen, unapologetic humor, Hawke carried an air of authority with her at all times. She was meant for leadership; she commanded loyalty by possessing an unparalleled sense of justice and compassion.

Hawke was also, in polite terms, unfairly pleasing to look at. Perhaps the most attractive person Lin had seen, human or elf or other. The Champion had a pleasantly round face, a strong jaw, honey-brown eyes just a shade lighter than her tawny skin. The most eye-catching part of her, though, was the lovely mess atop her head. Even pulled into a disheveled ponytail, Hawke’s hair shone in the last rays of the setting sun. It looked, to Lin, like someone had poured arterial blood into a vat of molten gold. 

Ever since she could remember, Keeper Deshanna had kept a precious piece of fossilized amber on a cord around her neck. Amber was a rare and valued trinket among their people, as it was a physical reminder of _history_ , something the Dalish held dear. When amber was found with a creature within, such trinkets became even more valuable - little curios that evidenced the hardiness of memory despite the weathering nature of time.

Within the golden-brown facets of Deshanna’s pendant, suspended in natural immortality, was a scorpion. Lin would not encounter one of the creatures live until many years later (in the Hissing Wastes, as a matter of fact), but she had always been transfixed by the deadly thing encased in such beauty. Even as an adult she favored fabrics of a deep golden-brown, the color of native Fereldan trees as the seasons changed, the gilded thickness of a restoration potion, the honeyed luster of decadent jewelry, the glittering hilt of a ceremonial sword. Anything that emulated that lovely color stuck with her, drew her in.

That was certainly why she so wanted to wind her fingers into the Champion’s hair and _pull._ It was a filthy and delirious desire that flashed into her head much too often. And judging by the slack-jawed expression on Bull’s face, she wasn’t the only one thinking obscene thoughts.

“Damn,” he muttered, pulling a hand over his mouth. “Varric —”

“Please, not a word from either of you. I do _not_ want to hear whatever things you’re thinking about my best friend.” He hefted Bianca over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips. “Especially not off a trip to the Wastes. Andraste’s ass, you could put Isabela to shame.”

“Thanks,” Lin replied, metaphorically pulling her smalls up from the ground. “Who is she—” She cut off with a gasp, one echoed by both Bull and Varric, as the cloaked figure lowered their hood to reveal a crown of silver hair messy enough to rival that of Hawke.

“Broody!” Varric shouted in unmasked glee, face stretched in a broad grin, and ran towards his friends as fast as his desert-tired limbs would allow.

“Broody?” Bull echoed.

The man turned, and Lin caught sight of angular pointed ears, pale lyrium tattoos, and a devastatingly handsome smirk. She followed Bull, both of them probably quite hypnotized as they made their way across the courtyard to the trio. Solas, though silent once more, also followed.

“Oh Mythal, that’s a lovely elf,” Lin purred, catching Bull’s dumb nod of agreement out the corner of her eye.

Hawke was certainly striking on her own, and Fenris had a similarly powerful allure, layered with a magnetic fierceness that made Lin think of wolves flashing bloodied snarls. But, standing next to each other in contrast, they both became them achingly beautiful. The two were of a height and, though the similarities ended there.

Where Hawke was _golden,_ from her dirty amber hair and brown eyes to the sun-warmed ruddiness of her complexion, the elf beside her seemed Hawke’s gilded shadow. His posture was that of a panther coiled and ready to spring, the effect made more dizzying when accompanied by the huge greatsword strapped to his back. His skin was a rich and dusky brown, perhaps a shade or two darker than Lin herself. And like her, his hair was a silver-gray, pulled into a temptingly loose knot at his nape. She wondered if his hair was also the result of genetics, or a side effect from the lyrium under his skin.

Hawke, standing very close to him with crossed arms, was drumming her fingers over her forearms, like she was itching to touch him. The gossip, and Varric’s account, must be true then: the two were lovers or once had been. She could tell in the way they held themselves around each other, the straight line of Hawke’s back as she seemed to fight the urge to sway closer. Fenris too seemed captivated, his fingers tapping against his thigh every time his gaze cut to Hawke - which was often.

Bull would know better than her, for all his knowledge of body language.

She turned to him, craning her neck to look him in the eye, and before she could open her mouth to ask, he said: “Yup. Probably for more than a few years.” He groaned. “Look at them, no way I could talk a couple _that_ absorbed with each other into a threesome.”

Solas choked on air behind them but Lin refocused on the pair with a shrewder gaze. Other than Fenris’s initial greeting to Varric, his attention had remained on Hawke. The three were ina animated conversation, but Fenris became noticeably softer when he addressed Hawke, intimately gazing at her like they weren’t surrounded by dozens of curious and excited members of the Inquisition.

Lin stared, sure that she had a dumb-struck expression on her face. Varric reached up to pat Fenris on the shoulder - standing on tiptoe to accomplish it - and saluted Hawke before he made his way back over to them. Hawke and Fenris disappeared into the tavern, their fingers tangled together.

Once Varric was within range, Bull let out another long, appreciative whistle.

“Damn, Tethras.” he mumbled, slipping an eyebrow wiggle in, “your tale _really_ doesn’t do either of them justice.”

Their friend made a face. “I’m sorry that I favor a good story over letting the masses unapologetically lust over my best friends.” He elbowed Bull in the thigh. “Close your mouth, you’re drooling everywhere. You’re making me and Bianca very uncomfortable.”

“They do make quite the pair,” Solas added, to everyone’s surprise (and Varric’s indignation).

“Not you too, Chuckles. I was holding out for you to be the only level-headed one here.”

“I remain as such, but it is natural to notice beautiful things.” Solas shrugged, his gaze cutting to Lin for a moment long enough to make her flush. “Might Fenris be amenable to answering a few questions about his - ah…markings?”

“Probably not, Chuckles. Sorry.” Varric responded.

“Might Fenris be amenable to making a Hawke sandwich with me?” Bull piped up. Lin cackled, and Solas maintained blank disapproval, though the corners of his lips twitched.

Varric, looking years older, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Tiny. And thank you for that mental image.”

Lin’s ears perked up, her mouth curling into a smirk. “Might Hawke be amenable to making a _Lin_ sandwich with Fenris?” She asked saucily. There was another indignant noise from Solas; when she turned to smirk at him over her shoulder, the tips of his ears looked a little pink. But that could have been the sunburn.

Bull laughed boisterously, bending double to clutch at his stomach. Poor Varric, poor, tortured Varric — he threw his arms in the air with a colorful curse. “I give up. I quit! See how the Inquisition runs without me, I’m going back to prostrate myself at Hawke’s feet and beg to rejoin the old crew.”

“ _Prostrate,”_ Lin snickered at the same time Bull offered a rumbling, “Kinky.”

Varric shook his head. “I’m going to scrub the sand and disgust off. See you unrepentant sinners for Wicked Grace tonight.”

“Will Hawke and Fenris be joining us?” Bull asked with a suggestive grin. Varric shot him one of Sera’s patented rude gestures and slipped up the steps to the main hall. As he disappeared inside, Lin turned to Bull. “I want the Champion of Kirkwall to step on me,” she said matter-of-factly. “And then I want that elf — Fen’Harel’s hairy taint, that _elf_ — he gets to finish me off with that greatsword in my gut.”

This time, Solas really sounded like he was going to die judging by the sound he made. Bull only laughed harderand slapped him - firmly - on the back.

“When you say greatsword, do you mean…“

“ _Yes_.” Lin answered, flattening her palm over Bull’s bicep despite it being nearly a foot above her head. Her shoulders shook as she tried not to burst into hysterical giggles.

Bull raised an eyebrow. “And when you say gut?”

She turned her face up to stare him in the eye with a smirk. “Oh, I mean really do mean gut. That way, there’s another… _opportunity_ …for Hawke to— “

“All right, I do believe I must take the opportunity to interrupt this nonsense, Inquisitor,” Solas intervened, his voice clipped. “That is…quite enough. Poor Varric.”

“Aw, c’mon Solas. You know you want them to do bad, bad things to you.”

Lin snickered. “I bet you could talk them into a game of  _repentant shem_.” She tapped her chin, her eyes glazing over a little. “Now there’s an idea. ‘ _Thanks for saving my lover from an eternity in the Fade, we’ve agreed you deserve a reward’_.”

“By all means, keep feeding me ideas. Dorian will appreciate them,” Bull said.

Solas cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, dropping his voice quiet enough that they had to lean closer to hear. “If anything,” he said with an uncharacteristic leer, “we would be playing _naughty sinning apostates_.”

The Inquisitor, for all her jeering, went an interesting shade of pink as Bull roared with approving laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More shenanigans and flirtations while Hawke considers writing a hefty tome of poetry about all the delicious parts of Fenris. (He's got quite a few.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to keep going with this work because it's a pretty fun diversion from everything else I'm working on. I've also updated the tags to better differentiate the ships. Please enjoy this silliness and leave a comment if you liked it.

Hawke is still reeling, to be honest. For all it was worth, Thedas seemed to enjoy throwing surprise after surprise at her. And this, she thought as she regarded Fenris in front of her once again, was certainly one of the few good surprises in her life.

She fought very hard not to sigh like a lovesick idiot as she stared at him. Fenris, flushed from the cold (and yet still so warm to the touch), the familiar smell of leather and lyrium clinging to him. He looks carefree, that trademark smirk of his blinding as the sun. The memory of his lopsided grins, rare and sacred, were largely what she had to thank for keeping her _going_ over the course of their time apart.

None of that loneliness or pain matters now. He’s in front of her, in the flesh, blessedly real. They, perhaps, stare at each other a little longer than strictly necessary; his smirk softens into something private, and she’s overcome with a surreal, powerful wave of affection. Her own mouth is already aching, and she can hear her mother’s voice in her head: _your face will freeze like that_.

She doesn’t much care.

The tavern is awash in the last, trickling rays of sun; twilight has pulled itself slowly around the dark corners, everything gilded from the light. Hawke’s thoughts admittedly get a little syrupy-sweet: as the day slinks away, the last grace of light casts hints of burnished bronze across Fenris’s skin, the markings. It makes his hair look like aged sterling, metallic and threaded-through with gold.

She can’t help it. The hand not trapped by his clawed gauntlet drifts up, fingers brushing over his cheek gently. Like he might disappear any moment. His mouth twitches when blunt nails skirt behind his ear, teasing, and then comb through the hair at his temple. It’s longer than she remembers and she would put money on the fact that he allowed it to get so long out of sheer laziness. He care so littler for appearances that it’s certainly not a fashion choice. The press of his head into the touch is too subtle for anyone to notice, unless they’re looking for it, and her heart beats a familiar, steady pattern. It’s one that she felt in Lothering, chasing the family mutt through fields of wheat. She felt it in Kirkwall, in Gamlen’s disgusting slum, in that blasted mansion, on Wicked Grace nights, star-gazing with Merrill and drinking with Varric and —

It beats the strongest with Fenris, though. _Home, home, home_ , rough and raw in her chest.

She’s still smiling when she tucks a particularly unruly piece behind his ear. “It looks much better on you than one would guess.” The compliment-slash-jab is accompanied by a light tug on the knot of hair messily gathered at the base of his neck. Her trouble earns her a dusted flush over his cheeks, delighting her further when he covers what must be a contended purr with a huff of laughter. Hawke barrels forward, wanting to hear the sound again. She’d missed it so. “Roguish, wild. You _look_ as if you would be a slaver-hunter. For what it’s worth, it has my approval.”

His eyes glitter mischievously, olive-green and lit by the lanterns around them. Not for the first time that evening (and certainly not for the last), her chest expands with a wave affection so strong it takes her breath.

“And your approval is worth the world,” Fenris replies solemnly, eyebrows lifting when she giggles stupidly. “You know that I value your esteem above all,” he says in that gravelly tone he usually reserves for rare moments of privacy. _Woof,_ Hawke swoons. “Anything necessary to earn your appreciation.” For Fenris, it’s a bold thing to say, especially in a crowded tavern. She gapes at him and he, bolstered by her reaction, leans ever closer.

Maker take the public setting, the dozens of eyes she knows are glued to them, the Champion and her infamous lover. Hawke follows the pull of her heart and slips her arms around his neck. She pulls him into a tight hug, pressing as close as she can. He shivers, obviously feeling the sharp grin she presses into the sensitive skin under his ear, but is as wonderfully predictable as always. Bless him, for as much as they’ve changed, he’s changed so little in this for he remains stiff in her arms. That’s not to say affection doesn’t come much easier than it used to, but she suspects he will always tense before relaxing into such touches. She’s right; it lasts but a brief moment before he encircles her in turn, a wonderfully _crushing_ embrace. Hawke pulls back to meet his lips in a tender kiss.

Neither of them expects the tavern to erupt into thunderous applause, punctuated by a few shrill and suggestive whistles. They both startle and jump apart, faces two different shades of red.

Fenris’s ears are flat with tension as he surveils the room. Hawke waits for him to relax enough to look at her once again, and when he gathers himself to do so she has an almost shy smile waiting. There’s a pause in his guarded expression, but then he mirrors it. One big step back into her orbit, Fenris gathers her close once again, possessive and affectionate in equal measure.

This time they ignore the renewed celebration. Boisterous as the crowd is, they find it easier to lose themselves in each other.

The thought is…embarrassing, to say the least. It makes Hawke laugh; she can feel him likewise grinning like an idiot into her neck.

(If she also feels moisture on her jaw, notices the way he quickly swipes under his after, she will not mention either.)

But she _does_ make a small noise to protest when he shifts, though he doesn’t extract himself just yet. Instead he settles his mouth against her ear, a worse form of torture than letting her go. He’s close enough that she can feel the raised texture of the lines on his chin, lyrium tingling her cheek. “Hawke,” he sighs and makes her shiver, “I missed you more than you might think possible.”

“So you said earlier.” Hawke hums. “But I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I’m _wonderful_ in bed and rather good company so it’s safe to assume you missed me quite a bit.”

Fenris pulls back to look at her, his big intense eyes searching her face, and then he presses a sweet, close-mouthed kiss to her forehead. “Wonderful in bed, rather good company, and utterly humble,” he says dryly. “Has there been a luckier man?”

“Nope,” Hawke replies, popping her ‘p’ ridiculously.

This is perhaps the longest she’s seen Fenris go without that grumpy frown. She must, in some significant way, bring him the same happiness that he does her. For someone like Hawke, who hides everything squishy and important behind an impenetrable shield of poor jokes and immaturity, that’s quite a powerful thought. She’s not been the young mage struggling for acceptance, grasping for some hint of her place in life, for a long time. But that doesn’t mean insecurity, doubt, and loneliness don’t call to her some nights. Especially recently, with her little messy family stretched to all corners of Thedas.

She’s aware that she tires people with her seemingly-tactless jokes, and too few people have bothered to follow their curiosity and know her as a person, rather than the smart ass Champion from Varric’s tales. Fenris is, and Maker preserve her she’ll never understand _why_ , one of those few people. He’s the one that looks at her - through her - like _that_. Exactly how he’s looking at her right his moment, even though she constantly makes a fool of herself and others. Even though she’s a mage. Even though she’d been about to travel north by herself, and leave him behind.

Hawke clears her throat, losing the touch of cool confidence as he stares at her.Fenris has the ability to peel away those silly layers and find the person underneath. It’s wonderful and terrifying.

“What?” she asks, a little grumpily.“Please tell me I don’t have something on my face, not during our dramatic reunion. I’ll die of embarrassment.”

Stupid man, he just keeps gazing at her, looking soft in the head with the corners of his plush lips turned up. It looks cemented on, and Hawke is at least glad she’s not the only one who the gossip-mongers will label a love-sick fool after this display of theirs. There are a few more whistles around him, but his expression doesn’t falter. She suspects nothing short of an archdemon bursting through Skyhold’s walls could wipe it off.

(And…she’s not sure what it says about her, that the image her mind conjures of Fenris grinning like he’s mad, splattered in dragon blood and charging forth with that big sword makes her stomach flip the way it does.)

His thumb brushes her cheek, startling her from the daydream. She’s both relieved and surprised to find that she hasn’t been drooling.

“You have my gratitude,” He admits, voice as soft, “for not traveling to Weisshaupt alone.”

Hawke snorts, because she’s very good at ruining a sentimental mood, and lets her forehead fall with a _thump_ to his chest. “It’s rather more like I didn’t get a choice in the matter. Varric practically held me hostage while he waited for you to get that letter and arrive.” She narrows her eyes. “And he was _so_ pleased with himself when you came marching up the battlements. Bastard.”

He chuckles, hand dropping from her face to twine his gauntleted fingers with hers. He’s very careful about the pointed tips of them despite knowing that sometimes she prefers him not to be. “Him or me?”

“Both of you,” Hawke jokes. “Although I’m glad I waited to say that until now. When you arrived earlier you looked mad enough to strike me down yourself, never mind some wyvern or wolf on the side of the road.”

That’s certainly the wrong thing to say, because Fenris graces her with that frown. She missed it almost as much as his smile, she has to admit.

“That is not funny.” Hawke shrugs sheepishly, mutters an apology, and Fenris huffs a laugh under his breath.“The dwarf has my eternal gratitude for keeping your stupidity in check in my absence.” He tucks a stray curl of hair behind her ear, mirroring her motion from earlier. Hawke has a brief flashback, a glimpse of eight years in the past, to when any touch of his was something so rare it needed to be treasured. How things have changed. “But I guarantee Varric will not receive the same sort of appreciation I intend to show you.”

Maker take him, he’s such a smug bastard when he wants to be. Hawke knows that _he_ knows what he’s doing, that he’s doing it personally just to get to her. And get to her it does, although the shiver she gives him is mostly dramatic.

“Oooh,” she whines theatrically, “don’t get me worked up with thoughts of hairy chests and pretty glowing elves.”

Fenris shakes his head and says, with a unique air of affectionate hatred no other person could manage: “Shut up, Hawke.”

Contrary to his words, he dips his chin to kiss her cheek. “As I said, I am grateful that you did not travel alone,” he says, cradling her jaw as his eyes flick between hers. “And I would show you, given the opportunity of privacy, how appreciative I am of that decision.”

Well.

There’s really no hiding the effect the words have on her. She sways forward so violently that she trips in place, locked in on the single-minded goal of kissing him senseless. But he disrupts that plan - she whines - with just a gentle tilt of his head. One dark eyebrow quirked he amends: “Later.”

She nearly growls, endlessly annoyed at his display of self control. “ _Later_ ,” she repeats with a huff, but then abandons her plan to argue. Instead she takes a shuddering breath, one intended to calm her nerves, and levels him with a baleful glare. “All right then, Fen. Mutual displays of appreciation. Later.”

Only then does he allow her to pull away, perhaps only because she allows him to keep a point of contact between them in the form of his hand resting on the small of her back. That ridiculous, uncontrollable smile is back on her face, the flush on her cheeks once more, but Maker’s breath she doesn’t _care_. The familiarity of his presence, the comfort of their antics, the teasing flirtations…it’s all overwhelmingly wonderful.

There will be rumors and whispers of their affections, not only from Varric’s stories, but the spymaster’s disturbingly omnipresent (and gossipy) network of spies.

Perhaps - Andraste’s ass the thought makes her groan -even _ballads_. Tavern ballads that will be played for years to come. She’ll never go to the Hanged Man again, if that’s the case. Embarrassing and randy tavern ballads might be bad enough, but she can’t have any of the regulars thinking she’s some weak, lovesick fool.

“Aren’t you?” Fenris asks teasingly, and Hawke realizes she’s said that last bit out loud.

Hawke slides her hand behind her back to squeeze his fingers and entangle them with hers. To be fair, she thinks as she allows Fenris to guide her into an unoccupied table in the corner, they would not be historically inaccurate ballads. She is, after all, a fool.

And, she concedes as she watches Fenris sink gracefully, lithe and lean and confident, into one of the creaky chairs, _absolutely_ lovesick.

He still has her hand in his, thumb brushing over the thin tissue on the inside of her wrist. “Would you like me to write the ballads myself, so they retain some shred of dignity?” His smirk is dangerous. “Or perhaps: ‘I thought of you with every black heart I crushed in my palm, but also in my bedroll every night’ is too much for such songs?”

Gooseflesh erupts on her arms, beginning at the maddening circles of his thumb. “Oh, you’re a bastard.” Not for the first time, her gut pangs with longing and heat at the thought of the gentle hand on her buried within a man’s chest, warm and slick with blood.

Fenris only hums in response. “I thought of the freedom you gave me, how I was sharing it with those I freed by a magister’s death.” He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm. “My heart is in your hand, Hawke. Always.”

It’s all…quite a lot. And suddenly too intimate, too private a conversation for Hawke to blunder through, so she does what she does best. She dissolves the sincerity in the air by theatrically plopping into his lap, twisting an arm around his shoulders for balance.

“Mmm,” she teases, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Fen, you know what all this talk of dead slavers and justice and bloodied gauntlets does to me. My, my.” His cheeks burn when she leans in to kiss _his_ cheek, follows it up by gently tweaking his nose until he slaps her hand away with a chuckle. “Foreplay in the middle of a crowded tavern - how _bold_ you are!”

The relaxed smirk on his face might look, to a third party, like immunity to her honeyed teasing. But Hawke knows him better. She feels the nervous bouncing of his knee and the way he clears his throat before he flirts back, the heat in his green eyes. “Where are your quarters? I have many months worth of stories if you’re in need of more inspiration.”

When the Inquisitor’s qunari companion enters the tavern, Hawke is still breathless with laughter and swatting at him. They both pause in their antics to stare as he bends nearly double and twists at the waist so his horns can clear the doorway. Hawke’s eyebrows lift clear to her hairline, and the puff of air from Fenris’s accompanying chuckle lifts the hair on the back of her neck.

“Maker’s hairy arse. They really don’t fuck around with genetics in Par Vollen, do they? Look at the size of that man.”

Fenris nods in agreement and then raises a hand to gesture to the dwarf behind the bar for a round. Hawke notices that he raises enough fingers for drinks - possibly intended for the Inquisitor and her companions. She’s not sure how he knows they’ll be joining the table, but he’s often not wrong when it comes to matters of drink and celebration. She also wonders how he’s going to pay for it all until he sets a sovereign down and she realizes that slavers must have quite heavy pockets.

Hawke loves looting. She loves Fenris. She hates slavers. So the thought of Hawke buying a round with their money gets to her just as much as his touch or voice or suggestive promises.

“Hot,” she mutters under her breath.

Fenris doesn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he adjusts Hawke on his lap so his armor is not biting into her inner thigh. “Perhaps most impressive,” he says, still watching the qunari move through the crowd towards them, “is that he is Ben-Hassrath. Their secret police. He is probably not even one of their strongest soldiers, or largest.”

Hawke blinks at him. “You know him?”

“No,” Fenris shakes his head. “Not him in particular. He carries himself like a Ben-Hassrath, but…” His nose wrinkles. “I think he might be Tal-Vashoth.”

A barmaid delivers the first round of their drinks on a tray, aiming a flirtatious wink at Hawke while leaning just _slightly_ lower than necessary. Fenris shoots her a polite smile, absolutely clueless about the signals the poor girl is sending, bless him. She’s no jealous, bitter housewife but it is quite validating.

“You’re right, actually,” she responds. The qnunari raises his hand in greeting to them when he drawls closer, and Hawke beckons him to draw a chair. The smile she receives in return is more than slightly guarded - she really hadn’t expected his expression to be so hard to read, but the eyepatch hides a great deal. “He _is_ Tal-Vashoth, but only recently. Something happened on the Storm Coast, a meeting gone wrong. Some of the men in his company were talking about it.”

“Playing spy?” Fenris asks mildly. He pulls his splayed legs closer to make room for their company, and the shift of his thighs under hers is friction enough to send a zip of desire up her spine.

Hawke snorts, collecting herself. “Please, you know I don’t have the disposition to be a spy.” She leans forward to take a tankard from the tray, hand tight over his forearm for balance. “The cute Tevinter boy gets talkative after a few rounds and batting eyelashes.”

Fenris grumbles, but whatever he’s about to say is cut off by a great, boisterous laugh. It’s from the Inquisitor’s qunari friend; he’s caught the end of their conversation as he takes the seat across from Fenris.

(Hawke has to admit, she’s surprised that the chair doesn’t break under the mass of him.)

“You’ll have to be a little more specific, Champion,” he says . There’s a momentarily lull where he gets distracted by another serving girl carrying a tray, who pauses when he reaches for one and winks at her. _Is it a wink if there’s only one?_ Hawke wonders. When she turns to raise her eyebrows at Fenris, he scoffs like he knows what question she’s trying to communicate and disapproves. “There’s quite a few attractive ‘Vints wandering around Skyhold.”

When he says it, he’s looking pointedly at Fenris, who has not exactly been on the receiving end of many qunari compliments. He rolls his eyes and looks away, characteristic compliment-receiving behavior for him, but Hawke notices _that_ little ear twitch, the one that meanshe’s secretly pleased and trying to hide it.

“Oh, yes. The other attractive ‘Vint. We’ve met Dorian already,” Hawke says. She earns a little jar in the side from Fenris’s elbow for it. “Will he be joining us?”

The qunari takes a huge drink from the tankard, throat bobbing. He sets it - nearly empty - on the table with a clatter and leans back. “Nah, I told him to sit it out for now.” He casts a calculating look at Fenris. “He’s mouthy as they come, but I’m pretty fond of him regardless. I didn’t want to see your man cut him into ribbons if I could avoid it.”

“As long as he does not own slaves or contribute to their continued oppression, I am mature enough to handle someone with a differing opinion than my own.”

“Fucking a mage will do that to your worldview,” Hawke chirps glibly. The qunari laughs appreciatively and she doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that Fenris is blushing and glaring hard enough at the back of her head to burn a hole through it.

“Dorian’s a mage,” their guest says, “so I understand that part.” He shakes his head and reaches for another drink. “Never thought I’d take one for a lover, or have a wild Dalish mage as my boss and good friend, but life’s like that.”

Hawke thinks about the Inquisitor’s dark brown skin and gleaming silver hair, and loses track of her thoughts for a moment. Maker take her, but she must have a type. “Hmmm, I’d like to see a page in her spell book.” She waggles her eyebrows to make the point clear. “If you know what I mean.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Fenris groans. He’d been curling a lock of her hair around his finger, and at the comment he gives it a hard little tug.

Hawke knows that her jokes are usually not all that funny, so when the qunari laughs boisterously once more, she knows it’s probably - almost certainly - some sort of sneaky Ben-Hassrath tactic intended to gain her trust. It works, because it’s _so_ very nice to be appreciated.

“Champion,” he says once he’s caught his breath, “you should give yourself a little more credit.” When Hawke levels him with a quizzical look, he waves a big hand at her dismissively. Another tankard of the Herald’s Rest signature piss-water disappears in a matter of seconds, and then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean the part about you not being cut out for the spy life.”

She can feel Fenris’s eyes on her, so she twists slightly to look at him over her shoulder. His eyebrows are raised, face a little pink. He clears his throat and ignores Hawke’s saucy grin. “Ah, well…hm.” Fenris stutters uncharacteristically. “How much of that conversation did you hear?”

The qunari’s expression is suggestive, and he _tsks_ gently and shakes his head. Unfortunately, there’s a bar girl walking past at the exact moment. Hawke’s rather impressed by the quick duck and dodge she has to pull off in order to get out of the way of his massive horns, all while still balancing a tray against her hip. She gives the girl a thumbs up, grinning widely, and _that’s_ when the girl loses her focus, blushes, and stumbles.

“I heard enough to know that the two of you are going to be busy later.” The Inquisitor’s qunari says. Fenris scowls, but there’s no denying the restless bounce of his leg under Hawke’s ass, or the possessive hand cupping her hip. She’s pretty sure, after all, that anyone with working eyes would be able to see they’re going to be _busy_ later. Hawke twists a little in his lap, just to be a nuisance and a tease, and winks at him. They’ve missed each other so much and there’s no way for her to describe how much comfort even his presence provides. Their journey to Weisshaupt will inevitably be delayed by at _least_ a week of bedrest, if Hawke’s vulgar and time-consuming plans to celebrate his return have anything to say about it.

“We’ve all been subjected to Varric’s endless stories,” Hawke and Fenris both nod in agreement here, “Most of them are about how you, Hawke. Specifically how wily and charming Kirkwall’s infamous Champion can be.”

Hawke offers him a _oh-you-shouldn’t-have-but-keep-going_ sort of shrug, dipping her hand in a dainty gesture and then fanning herself. “Please, the rumors of my brilliance have been greatly under exaggerated.”

(Fenris worms a hand between them to pinch the delicate skin connecting her ass and thigh in retaliation for the quip, and she absolutely does not _yelp.)_

“Hm, most people would argue that a spy’s greatest assets are wit and charm. And if their sentiment isn’t enough, then take it from me.” His hand is _huge_ , gray and thick with veins, fingers riddled with calluses and scars. It’s probably bigger than her face. Maybe her face and Fenris’s combined. There’s an interesting thought that follows that one, but her brain can’t quite make sense of it. All she knows is that it’s filthy.

“The Iron Bull. Former Ben-Hassrath, current mercenary, spy, lover of blood grooves” It’s a very southern gesture, a handshake. He offers it with the ease of someone who is very comfortable with the area’s customs, not someone who is forcing themselves to fit in when they don’t. Hawke and Fenris share a brief glance, and then they both take turns giving his hand a firm clasp.

“Your name is.. _The Iron Bull?”_ Hawke asks incredulously, grinning. He matches it.

“Yep. And before you ask, I really don’t care what you call me. Bull, Iron Bull…” he waggles his eyebrows. “Or whatever else you can come up with, Champion.” Fenris quirks his eyebrows, and Bull clears his throat. “Uh, but. Bull is what most people use.”

“Forgive me,” Fenris interrupts. “But do you serve under Leliana? I was unaware the Inquisition’s spies were so…diverse.”

Hawke gasps. “Oh, unless you _are_ Leliana, in which case: _love_ the new look, however fond I was of the whole pretty, dangerous redhead thing.”

Fenris abandons his grip on her waist to pinch the bridge of his nose with a groan, the sound of a man now long accustomed to being an audience of his lover’s awful jokes. Fortunately, it lands much better with Bull, and she earns another chuckle.

“Champion, the day I wake up a pretty redhead is the day I never leave my quarters,” he shoots back.

Fenris coughs around a mouthful of ale to hide his splutter.

“But, ah. No. Bull it is. Captain, if you’re my Chargers. Bull, if we’re friends.” His eyes dance. “Tiny, if you’re Varric.”

“And if you’re us?” Fenris prompts. Bull appraises him for a long enough moment that Hawke feels him begin to fidget, and then:

“Like I said, handsome. If you have any ideas, feel free to share.” Bull does the not-wink wink again. “Otherwise we’ll just have to come up with something special.”

Hawke is delighted when Fenris hides his embarrassed scowl by taking a long drink from his tankard. “I had hoped to get away with randy captains when Isabela left for her pirate adventure,” he mutters. “But unfortunately it seems I am forever cursed with such ribald company.”

“Mmmm,” Hawke coos, rotating to throw her legs over his thighs so she’s sitting parallel to him. She ignores his warning glare and twines her arms around his neck, drops her temple to rest on his shoulder. “Darling, you know I love your big…”

“ _Hawke._ ”

“Vocabulary!”

“Right, I’ve definitely come in at the wrong friggin’ time if we’re talking’ about wordy words,” chirps a voice. It’s heavily accented with Denerim’s distinct twang, and it draws Bull’s gaze as well as the attention of Kirkwall’s most hated couple. accented heavily in a Denerim twang.

A blonde elf suddenly drops from the rafters of the ceiling, directly onto one of Bull’s horns.She gives a little shriek as she lands, but Bull seems relatively nonplussed by the development. Instead, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head to dislodge her, and the girl lands arse-up on the floor.

She’s quick to bound to her feet, arms up and rolling in a boxer’s rhythm. “Oi, you big ol’ ox savage. Put ‘em up, m’just trying to eavesdrop.”

The elf…she’s very young, Hawke realizes with a pang in her chest. She thinks of Bethany, barely eighteen and covered with muck as they flee Lothering. This girl can’t be more than twenty. - she’syoung, Hawke puts her at no more than twenty and, not for the first time, wonders what other odd menagerie of character the Inquisitor has managed to acquire for her inner circle.

Bull puts his big hand over the girl’s face, shoving with just enough gentle force that it makes her stumble back and, eventually (when she stops dramatically teetering) land in the chair beside him.

“Not now, Sera.” Bull says. “The adults are talking.”

“Bugger the adults,” Sera scoffs at the same time Hawke’s eyes go wide.

“Sera?” At the recognition in her tone, Fenris turns a quizzical eye on her. Hawke sighs. “Charade has taken up with the Red Jennies. Some group in Thedas that does…like, petty stuff to nobles. She writes about it in her letters to the point they’re nearly illegible.” Hawke points her finger at the elf. “This one, I assume, is the prankster I hear about from time to time.”

Sera’s blinking huge, dazzling eyes at her before she sinks back - melts, really - into her chair. “ _Woof_. Champ, you wanna say all that again, yeah? Maybe just a little slower, focus on the _Sera_ bit.” She smirks. “Drag it out all good ’n shite, friggin’ naughty Marcher.”

Fenris narrows his eyes, but Hawke leans forward and drawls: “Serrrrra?”

Sera giggles like mad. “That’s the ticket.” She taps her temple. “That one’s going right in the bank.”

“I am but a humble servant of the people,” Hawke shrugs. Fenris looks like the scowl might wither his mouth and make it fall off, and she needs that mouth for other things so she reaches under the table and pats his thigh reassuringly. He’s not particularly possessive or jealous, and he knows she’s probably the flirtiest person on Thedas besides Isabela, but their time apart must have gotten to him more than she realized.

 _That just means it’ll be fun later,_ Hawke thinks with a little swoon. Varric had made them promise to hold off jumping each others’ bones until their little cross-organizational Wicked Grace game was over. But when she loosens up and slumps back against Fenris’s broad, solid chest and feels anticipation tensing every inch of him, she might have to consider breaking her promise. The Inquisitor had granted her the humble quarters above the garden for the duration of her stay. Hawke has been (and been called) many things, but let no one claim she was one to let a big, comfy bed go to waste.


End file.
